Apparently there were scantily clad chicks there, but Fletcher (left) only sent us pictures of dudes.
By Fletcher Keyes
There are few instances when a man feels more vulnerable and alone than when his clothing is sparse and his friends are nowhere to be found. This especially holds true on closing day at Park City Mountain Resort, where the sexually perverse flock in droves of slutty snowbunnies and package-protruding onesies to celebrate another winter come and gone.
On this day I’ve chosen to differentiate myself. I am the lonesome bike messenger, dressed in spandex shorts, bike helmet, jersey, and bearing a messenger bag of beer. How my friends will laugh in delight at the audacity of my naked legs barreling down runs at record speeds thanks to my near-complete lack of wind resistance.
That is what I thought as I rode my first lift and sipped my first beer of the day. That was two hours and 4 beers ago, and I have yet to find any of my compatriots. The last words I actually said to the beautiful snow goddess who rode the last lift next to me were, “I swear I have friends.” She laughed and we parted ways, and the lonesome bike messenger is now alone once again. I check my phone expectantly, but it is lifeless. Full bars, but lifeless, and I reflect on the irony of a life as a messenger without messages.
They live for this shit.
I point the nose of my board down the nearest run and make my way to Silverload, the high-speed six-pack that has the most traffic on the mountain. I normally avoid the shit show at all costs, but today is different. Today I need to find my friends, or at the very least, known acquaintances. Otherwise I am nothing but a drunken messenger void of purpose and proper outerwear. At the crest of Prospector run, a steep hill that dumps skiers at death-defying speeds to the base of Silverload, I pause to gauge the snow. It’s a choppy slushfest but there’s a ribbon along the left that looks smooth, and possibly magnificent. Again I point my nose and hunker down low. Beer and adrenaline course through my veins as my back leg anchors me down and my front leg holds on for dear life. My shorts perform beautifully as I reach speeds I never have before; I hear the faint sounds of praise from the chairlift above and arrive at the bottom with a dramatic slash and a whitewash of snow. This is a moment of victory, surely. I take out my phone and see if my luck has changed.
“Party in the trees above Thaynes is on!”
The legendary S-C-O dubs.
Finally, my purpose has returned. It takes me twenty minutes to reach the turn-off into the trees and only a second to recognize the sound of a hundred inebriated individuals bent on debauchery. In moments my board is stashed next to a hundred others and my bike jersey is off. I find the friend with whom I lost contact early in the day and recruit him to rub sunscreen on my back. Beers are passed around and my messenger bag is soon empty.
Today is April 20th, something I nearly forgot to mention because I was too busy drinking and feeling overly exposed among strangers. The 420 celebration is clearly outweighing today’s other major holiday, Easter, based on the simple fact that I see more doobies than Easter eggs. Like Peter Pan reunited with the Lost Boys, I rejoice at the presence of my friends in all of their perverted costumes. Snowballs fly through the air and evidently more than one person is bent on hitting me, a natural consequence of all forms of public nudity.
A couple friends and I opt to leave the party and take some laps beneath the Thaynes lift. The three of us make a remarkable sight—one in a hot pink onesie and another in black leather bellbottoms, yellow frill shirt and mink fur hat, while I emanate like a beacon of flesh in nothing but my bike shorts. Hoots and cheers erupt from the ancient two-seater lift above as we power through slush and moguls to the bottom in our most motivated riding of the season.
Don’t fry, reapply.
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